If Daenerys and Yara Ruled Westeros - Full Story
by yochlochlo
Summary: After the battle for the Iron Throne begins, Queens Yara and Dany usher in a new era in Westeros. When two old enemies escape and seek revenge, Dany and Yara's relationship and reign will be tested.


**PART 1**

Yara Greyjoy gazes through the thick mist, searching for her first glimpse of King's Landing. The weathered wooden planks of Yara's prize ship, The Storm Born, creak as she paces impatiently. She hasn't seen her wife, Daenerys, for over a month and Yara longs to run her rough, battle-scarred hands through Dany's soft, white-blonde tendrils and look deep into those disarming amethyst eyes. Dany might sit on the iron throne, but Westeros and the Seven Kingdoms need constant displays of strength to remain united. And Yara's fearsome fleet of Ironborn is the perfect reminder to any revolution-minded subjects that Yara and Dany are as strong as any royal couple.

There it is. The Red Keep, looming magnificently above the entrance of Blackwater Bay. Yara stares up at the pale red stone drum-towers and iron ramparts. Somewhere beyond those stone parapets is her beloved. Just as Yara's thoughts drift to what she is going to do to Dany that evening, Theon Greyjoy appears at her side.

"Contemplating what Dany will do to thank you for quelling the Southern riots?"

Yara smiles and gives Theon a playful cuff. "You know me too well."

"Well, I'm glad one of us found the joys of married life." As always, Theon's smile is tinged with sadness.

The torture, castration, and trauma Theon endured as Ramsay Bolton's captive was irreparable. Theon could no more experience attraction for a woman than Yara could experience it for a man. He has made the best of it, lost that haunted look in his eye. He stands tall, like Yara, his shoulders no longer slumped with the expectation of punishment. Varys had taken Theon under his wing, and together they maintain and control Dany's brilliant network of spies. Theon has little birds of his own now and formed a salon—a support system—for asexuals throughout King's Landing. At first, it was eunuchs and nuns, but now increasing numbers of native asexuals join Theon in monthly meetings.

One of Dany's first decrees proclaimed that all sexualities, genders, and identities were equal in the Seven Kingdoms. This had caused a bit of a stir, but after Dany's forces swiftly defeated those of the mad Queen Cersei and Dany publicly wed Yara, the people of Westeros were so stunned and tired of fighting that they either accepted it or kept their disapproving mutters quiet. And those who protested loudly… Well, their heads decorated the walls of King's Landing.

Dany and Yara's patience only stretched so far, and to sit on the Iron Throne was to wield absolute power. There was no longer room for homophobia, sexism, or racism in the Seven Kingdoms.

After what felt like an eternity, The Storm Born glided through Blackwater Rush and landed near the Mud Gate. Yara and Theon begin barking orders.

"Tie the rope, form an assembly line to unload the cargo. The sooner we finish the sooner you get a drink, and I get my Queen."

The company cheered, rushing to finish their tasks.

It had taken a while to drill Dany's "No rape" decree into the Ironborn's thick, stubborn heads, but after every man took a required seven-week Women's History course under the firm eye of the Sisters of the Sept, each man signed a pledge to honor a woman's right to choose and always ask consent.

"Anything to stop the talking," one young Ironborn had observed.

Yara watches the crew with pride. Her people, like all the people of Westerns and The Seven Kingdoms, had learned and changed at an astonishing rate. It was a new era.

Dany struggles to maintain her expression of compassionate authority as yet another member of the Small Council drones on. Sometimes she misses the days of freeing slaves and riding with the Dothraki horde. Normally, Dany was a patient ruler who took a genuine interest in what her Council was saying. But today, when Yara would walk through that door at any minute and sweep Dany into her lean, muscled arms… Could anyone blame her for lacking concentration? "Ahem." Dany snaps back to the present.

Tyrion Lannister, the brilliant, sardonic dwarf who had advised Dany throughout countless dilemmas and made her laugh when it felt like she would never laugh again, was raising his eyebrow pointedly. The Councillor had finished talking about… Grain? Immigration? No matter. He was done.

"Thank you for your wise words, Councilman Mormont. I will take them under consideration and notify you of my decision shortly. You are dismissed."

With that, everyone but Tyrion files out of the Queen's Ballroom.

"Thinking about Yara?"

"Yes, I had hoped she would be here by nightfall."

"There's light left yet. Should I send for supper?"

"I suppose. If there's time, I should really meet with High Septon Sansa. Apparently, she's brought good news from the North. But all I really want to do is see Yara. If she arrives while I'm in a meeting, I don't know if I'll be able to finish the discussion."

"I could meet with her if you'd like. It's always a bit weird to talk shop with my ex-wife, especially after the nastiness my darling, dearly deceased family bestowed on her. But I think she's gotten over all that."

One of the Queen's Guard, a small, lithe figure who seems to blend into the tapestries, moved forward.

"She has! My sister remembers your kindness and respects all you've done for the good of Westeros. If you don't mind me interrupting."

Dany beams at Arya Stark, the Captain of the King's Guard, Yara's favorite sparring partner, and one of Dany's dearest friends. After Dany's dramatic return to King's Landing, there had been no shortage of death threats, and Arya had saved Dany and Yara from would-be assassins many a time. Arya divides her time between being head of the Queen's Guard, instructing female students in the art of combat, and romancing proper young ladies from beneath their fussy old parent's noses. Yara, in particular, is endlessly tickled by Arya's heartbreaking.

"Not at all, my friend. How is Sansa?"

"Busy and happy. She's whipped the new Northern Sept into shape and now has her eye on restoring the one in King's Landing."

"That's not a bad idea," Tyrion said speculatively. "The blighted remains of dragon fire depress me every time I pass by the old one. Cersei was a nasty piece of work."

There is a moment of tense silence as everyone remembers the fate of Queen Cersei the Mad. Arya, who hates Cersei more than almost anyone, is the first to break the silence.

"I have a proposal. Dany, you stay here, relax, and get everything ready for Yara's return. I know you'll both be needing some alone time tonight. Tyrion, you come with me to Sansa and start talk of this new Sept business. Maybe she'll fill us in on Jon's new wife. The rest of the King's Guard can keep guard outside."

"Excellent proposal."

And with that, Arya and Tyrion skipped off, joking and teasing the whole time. Tyrion had come to see Arya as a favorite niece, and she him a favorite Uncle. Dany was rather touched by the new bond between Lannister and Stark. Things do change if you will it with enough force.

A knock at the door. Dany finishes slipping into a gauzy, somewhat scandalous gown of pale gray. The diaphanous layers hug every curve of her ample figure, culminating in a plunging neckline that sank past her breasts. Two finely woven bracelets of the highest quality gold weave around her wrists and up her arm to the elbow. She moves swiftly, her light lambskin slippers barely making a sound against the cold marble floor. A servant enters.

She's a Wildling girl, one of the few who chose not to stay and make their home in the North along the wall, but to travel South to King's Landing and work as a Castle Servant. Several Dothraki and former slaves from the free cities also made the choice to stay with their Queen, settling down to build new, free, prosperous lives in the flourishing city. The servant quickly arranges a decadent feast of honeyed chicken, Arbor gold wine, dragon peppers, and lemon cake.

Just as the servant leaves, a familiar figure enters. Dany's heart pounds in delight, and she wordlessly throws herself into Yara's open arms. Dany cups Yara's chiseled chin and soft cheeks with her fingers. Yara's mouth comes down on Dany's lips, her tongue searching the inner corners of Dany's mouth. Dany shudders into delight and lets herself fall into the kiss. Everything around them fades to darkness. They are the only people in the world.

 **Part 2**

The old woman moves through the dense Forrest surrounding Crakehall with surprising swiftness. There is no one around to notice. These woods are eerily empty; some say haunted by those who died during the Batlle of Crakehall. When the Dothraki horde chased the last Lannister forces out of the Westerlands, an entire generation died. At the local tavern, villagers in their cups still talked about how the smoke of the funeral pyres blocked out the Sun. House Crakehall sided with the Lannisters and died or fled. No amount of scrubbing or scouring could get the blood of poor Lady Crakehall and her loyal servants from Crakehall's ancient stone floors. Eventually, the Castle was abandoned. Some villagers claim to still hear the dying screams of Lady Crakehall and her children when they wander too close to the Castle. Most try to stay far away from such angry ghosts.

But this old woman does not fear ghosts.

Dany and Yara cuddle in the overstuffed, dreadfully comfortable, extremely difficult to leave Royal featherbed. Dany prods her sleepy wife awake.

"The sun has risen."

"Yes, it does that."

"And it's time to wake up."

"I am awake."

"You don't look awake."

"I'm not conversating in my sleep, am I?"

Yara opens her left eye ever so slightly and peers at her lovely, perpetually motivated wife with affectionate irritation. "I'm up, I'm up."

Dany can't help but laugh at Yara's expression."Now you look like Drogon."

"I'm about to act like Drogon," Yara threatens, laughing along. She pulls Dany into a mock headlock that deepens into a kiss. All thoughts of leaving their makeshift dragon nest are forgotten for an hour when the Queens' servants began knocking rather insistently at the door.

Dany shoots up and rapidly starts getting dressed.

"We're late for the Small Council Meeting."

"They can wait," Yara mumbles apathetically, but stands and dresses all the same. Dany slips into an elegant, floor-length silk shift of pale jade. Yara laces up a pair of soft gray pants and pulls an ivory tunic over her head, strapping on her boot knives and sword before reaching the door.

"I don't think you'll need weapons," Dany observes.

"You never know."

Later, in the small Council chamber, Dany gravely studies a piece of parchment. Yara paces apprehensively.

"Is it the sweating sickness?" Dany asks.

"We don't know. It's a plague of some sort; that's certain."

"Where?"

"Westerlands, near Lannisport. Some say it was brought over the Sunset Sea; others insist it's a Lannister curse."

Yara snorts. "The Lannisters are well and truly trounced. They will cause us no trouble. Except for you, Tyrion. Of course. You are endless trouble, but it's the kind of trouble we like."

"What about Ser Jaime?" asks a Councilor in a squeaky, tentative voice.

At Jaime's name, the color drains from Tyrion's warped little face. There is no love lost between Tyrion and Cersei. She had tried to kill him many times. But Tyrion loved Jaime and Jaime loved Tyrion, but no force in Westeros could stop Jaime from loving Cersei.

"He took his Oath. He'll spend the rest of his days with the brotherhood rebuilding the wall and mourning the ruin of the great and powerful Lannisters. When my siblings and I die, there will no Lannisters left to curse anyone."

"And what about you?" Yara asks "Your children could take the Lannister name."

Tyrion smiles sadly. "I don't think that's going to happen."

"Don't be so cynical, Tyrion. You're a good man, Hand of The Queen, Hero of multiple Battles. You'll find someone."

Lady Mormont clears her throat politely.

"So, has this new malady been contained? Do we have an antidote? Because my territory, like almost everywhere in Westeros, has been greatly weakened by the great wars. We cannot survive a plague."

Ser Jorah grunts harshly.

"Here here. The people are tired, they're hungry, they want peace. This weather," Jorrah gestures disapprovingly at the sweltering hot air. A brutal heat wave had struck the Seven Kingdoms three weeks before, and shows no signs of abating "is a breeding ground for an epidemic."

Tyrion nods. "I know. Thus far there are 17 afflicted, all in the Westerlands. It seems relatively contained, and we've instituted a quarantine to keep it that way."

Dany sighs. It hurt her heart to know that her subjects were quarantined away, waiting to die. But leadership meant making unsavory choices for the common good.

"Let's move on, shall we?" Yara says, sensing her wife's ennui. "I don't suppose there's any good news?

"It's almost the Midsummer Festival, and the people are excited, not to mention long overdue for some merrymaking. We've allocated a generous budget for wine, ale, and feasting. Everyone in the Seven Kingdoms will join in the festivities."

Yara beams. "That's more like it. I'm excited to celebrate with my lady. What else?"

Tyrion's lips turn up into a sardonic smile. "Brienne of Tarth has returned from her sabbatical. I believe at this very moment, she and Arya are engaging in a rigorous mock duel by the stables. They've acquired quite the audience."

Dany stands.

"Let's join them, shall we."

The group proceeds to the practice ring to greet their old friend.

The old woman stops at an obscure corner wall of Crakehall and brushes away the brittle coating of ivy. This reveals a small door of rotting wood and rusted iron. The door had been built as a servant's entrance, then used as a hidden entrance for old Lord Crakehall's many serf mistresses. When he died, the door was forgotten. She shoves the door, cursing her age and weakness. If only she hadn't lost the necklace. After a long struggle, the hinges finally open with a wheezing creak.

Melisandre creeps through the narrow passage, brushing aside cobwebs and trying to ignore the rats nibbling at her toenails. She finds a narrow opening and crawls through into a main corridor. All is silent. A rickety, circular staircase stretches up to the highest tower of Crakehall. She begins long, exhausting climb.

Arya brushes a stray lock of golden brown hair from her merry hazel eyes. She studies her opponent. Brienne is twice her size, but Arya is used to that. Almost everyone she spars with is far larger than her agile but resolutely delicate body. No, what troubles Arya about Brienne is the woman's exceptional skill. Brienne had slowly but steadily been wearing her down, urging Arya into daring feints and then dashing aside, paring each of Arya's strokes with effortless grace.

Arya was proud of herself for scoring a couple points with the blunted practice swords. She had heard stories of the famous lady knight Brienne of Tarth since she returned to Westeros and helped Dany secure the Iron Throne. Before this match, Arya had suspected that the tales were wildly exaggerated. As soon as Brienne arrived in King's Landing, Arya had challenged the Knight to an amicable bout. But the rumors weren't exaggerated. Not one bit. If anything, Brienne is better than people say.

Brienne's finely honed sense of timing tells her that Arya's focus is wandering. She struck with a hard, decisive beat attack. Arya meets the first three blows with admirable strength, but finally yields under Brienne's unceasing barrage. Arya is knocked on her butt, needle soaring in the opposite direction and landing with a decisive clatter.

"Drat!" Arya cries with good-natured dismay. "I yield, I yield. You are the superior warrior." Brienne sheathes her sworn and helps Arya to her feet. They bow playfully. Danny, Yara, and Tyrion, who had been watching unobtrusively from the crowd, break into raucous applause. Other spectators join the clapping, gazing affectionately at their beloved royal couple. Brienne and Arya bow respectfully to their sovereigns and accept towels from waiting servants. They quickly dry off the sweat trickling down their neck and arms.

Dany beams. "Well done! You're both extraordinary fighters. We should have a Tournament. The women of Westeros will be swooning."

Brienne blushes.

"That isn't necessary."

"Can we? I won't even mind being trounced by Brienne if I can impress Lady Aspeth."

Yara claps her hands with delight. "Now that's a fine idea. Tyrion, do we have the funds in the treasury?"

Tyrion contemplates while Yara and Arya stare pleadingly at the clever dwarf. "I think we could fit in a Tourney during the Midsummer Festivities."

Yara and Arya whoop with delight. Dany smiles indulgently, and even the ever serious Brienne cracks a small smile.

The two fat tower guards play dice, ignoring the faint pounding coming from what appears to be a stone wall. Melisandre slips into the adjoining dining area where a small, simple meal of cheese, bread, and ale is waiting. She takes a small glass vial from her sleeve and pours it into the ale. Then she slips back into a secluded corridor and waits.

Hours later, after the guards have eaten and drank more than their fill, Melisandre watches their faces turn red.

"I think I'm going to be sick," the smaller of the two men moans. Then the screaming starts. The guards claw wildly at their throats. One tries to vomit but can't stop gasping.

"I. Can't. Breathe."

The screaming stops. The guards collapse. Melisandre leisurely strides out from the corridor and towards the fallen men. She turns each body over, examining their lifeless, glazed eyes.

She walks to the wall. The pounding stops. Melisandre inspects and pushes each stone, meticulously working her way along the wall. Finally, Melisandre finds what she is looking for. She pulls a stone from the wall to reveal a small window, made to pass food and water to the prisoner within. She pulls it away and is immediately struck by the stench of human waste and unwashed flesh. A pile of rags moves ever so slightly. It's a woman: dirty, emaciated, but alive. Just barely.

Cersei Lannister tilts her chin up. Her cold emerald eyes meet Melisandre's gaze.

"Who are you?" the Mad Queen whispers.

Melisandre smiles.

"A friend."

 **PART 3**

Melisandre and Cersei reach the outskirts of Crakehall village just as the first glimmer of dawn stabs the horizon. Cersei moves far slower than Melisandre, her once beautiful body worn to weakness by captivity.

"I need to rest," she says, panting and leaning against an ugly wooden church.

"We don't have time to rest. Any minute now the villagers will wake up."

"Surely you don't think they'll recognize us?" Cersei asks with a bitter laugh. "Even Jaime wouldn't know me now, much less some peasants."

"None the less, we shouldn't chance it."

"I need to rest," Cersei insists, a trace of her former authority shining through. Cersei turns to inspect the church doors. A long iron bar has been pushed under both door handles, locking the church from the outside.

"Strange. They've been barred shut. Why would they do that?"

A frayed piece of parchment nailed to the left door of the church catches Cersei's eye, and she begins to read. She pales and recoils.

"What does it say?"

As if in answer, a muffled whimper comes from the other side of the door.

"Plague. This is a quarantine."

Melisandre backs away.

"We need to leave."

She turns and stalks away. Cersei moves to follow her, then pauses. She has an idea. A powerful, terrible idea. The sort of idea Cersei thought she might never have again.

Cersei moves back to the door. She pushes the iron bar with all her might, willing it to move with every fiber of her being, summoning every last reserve of strength. When the bar creaks to movement, finally falling onto the grass with a heavy thud.

"You must come now!" Melisandre calls. "Day is breaking." And so it is.

Cersei turns and walks after Melisandre. She doesn't look back. She doesn't see the wan, wasted fingers curling around the church door. She only sees the morning light.

It is going to be a beautiful day.

The tourney grounds had been carefully selected for their location (close to King's Landing to be convenient, far enough to be empty) and fair appearance. Lush green hills, once dotted only by wildflowers and dirt roads, are now filled with flowers of a different sort: great pavilions of the great houses in every hue imaginable, each more elaborate than the last. Knights and ladies from every house in Westeros have come to pay their tribute to Queens Yara and Daenerys and add their names to the list. While some tourneys focused only on a particular type of combat, this great Midsummer Tourney had a competition for every type of Knight. There are jousts, melees, mock battles between teams of knights, duels, and an archery contest. It would last three days.

At the end of the Midsummer Tourney, the greatest knight would bow before Yara and Dany and receive their favors: a white handkerchief and a place in the Castle Guard. From Hedge Knights to Lordlings, the fighters came from every place in Westeros and every background. However, this tourney is different than any other. For the first time in Westeros history, women are allowed to compete in the battles. Both Brienne and Arya had entered.

Closer to the battlegrounds are simpler tents. These homespun, practical creations are just big enough to host a merchant hawking his wares. Vendor tents sell ale, fresh bread, roast mutton, cool water, and oats for the horses. The battlegrounds are enormous, rectangular grass fields. Surrounding the battlegrounds are wooden stands two stories high for the hundreds of festival attendees to watch the battles. Those too poor to purchase a seat stand in the pits beneath. These are peasants, paupers, and the rest of the lower class come to enjoy the free entertainment and bread. Child pickpockets weave through this raucous throng, cutting the purse of any soul too foolhardy or drunk to keep a close eye.

At the head of each battleground is the highest stand, topped by a purple tent with the Targaryen crest. Yara and Dany sit in this stand, surrounded by their closest advisors and the highest nobility. They sip wine and nibble on honey drizzled dates and roast chicken.

The first event of the day is a melee. It is the roughest of contests, a free for all of fifty or so knights in full armor. Dany had insisted (much to Yara's amusement) that the swords and axes be padded to prevent too much death. The contestants and onlookers grumbled at such ridiculous provisions on their bloody fun, but Dany had been quite insistent, and they had accepted this as some feminine quirk of their Lady Queen. In truth, Dany is so popular and had ushered in such a prosperous and happy time to Westeros that the people would have happily done anything she said.

"This is so exciting," Yara says, clapping her hands in delight. "I've never seen a melee before."

"It's like a battle with less blood and no real enmity," Dany says, amused by her wife's delight. Knowing it un-Queenly but not caring, she sneaks a kiss. Yara happily returns. The Queen's Guard hastily closes the tent flaps to give the Queens a little privacy. Too quickly the trumpeters blow their horns, and the Queens pull apart and hastily fix their gowns. The servants open the silk tent flaps to reveal the battlefield is now filled with knights in shining armor, armed to the teeth and facing their sovereigns. They bow.

Dany stands and lifts her hands imperiously. The crowd falls silent.

"I declare this Midsummer Fair officially commenced. Let the melee begin!"

And so it begins. The crowd roars in approval, and the 50 or so odd Knights fall upon each other viciously. Within seconds the first is down, felled by a longsword blow to the head. Healers with stretches slither through the battle, ferrying the fallen to the safety of healing tents, where their wounds will be treated by herbs and their ringing heads soothed by enormous flagons of ale.

A clear winner emerges within minutes: The Hound. Ser Sandor Clegane towers above the rest, a broadsword in one hand and an ax in the other, cutting down all who stand in his way with a single powerful stroke. Yara and Dany wince as one Knight goes down particularly hard.

"Maybe cushioning the weapons wasn't such a bad idea after all," Yara mutters. "You think?" Dany replies.

The Hound's relationship with the crowd is fraught. Many had called for his execution at the trials following Dany's invasion and succession to the Iron Throne. Arya had shocked them all when she begged for clemency. Dany had granted Ser Sandor pardon under the condition that he serve the crown, seeking out those who did harm and administering the Queen's justice. So he did.

Ser Sandor Clegane now rode through Westeros dressed all in black, answering calls for protection, hunting down and executing murderers. He is a killer. He would always be a killer. But now, as the Queen's dog, he killed killers. More men fell and were carried off the field. To nobody's surprise and nobody's joy, The Hound won the melee.

Next up: the joust. Horns blew to summon the champions. Murmurs of excitement come from the crowd as heralds boomed the names of each Knight. They mounted the horses at the south end of the field before pausing in front of the royal viewing stand to bow to Yara and Dany. They circle to each end of the field, lining up to select their opponents. In total, there are twenty jousters. At the middle is Ser Jorah Mormont, his bald head covered by a steel helmet. He faces Ser Ossifer Lipps of the Vale.

Dany sighs with worry.

"He's too old for this. I begged him not to enter. Ser Lipps is a fierce Knight and a seasoned jouster, decades younger than Jorah. Why does he do it? Why does he put himself in constant danger?"

"He does it for you," Yara says blackly, gulping Arbor gold and shoving a strawberry pie in her mouth.

"He's never stopped loving you. I think part of him still thinks he has a chance."

"Don't be jealous, Yara. You know there's no one but you."

She cups Yara's sharp chin and stares deep into her gray eyes

Yara cracks a smile.

"I know. But does he?"

The Knights are lined up and ready, lances down, shield up. The crowd is silent with anticipation. A horn sounds. The silence shatters. Ten pairs of spurs drive into the flanks of steeds, hundreds of voices shout, 40 hooves pound, and the Knights crash together in a terrible clatter of wood and steel. The riders pass each other, then wield around to strike again. Seven of the lances have broken, and these Knights unhappily ride off the field to unsaddle. This happens again. Now 11 lances have broken. Only two Knights remain. Ser Jorah and Ser Ossifer. They wheel around to face each other. The crowd roars. Dany grips Yara's hand.

"Look at him. He's bleeding."

And indeed, Ser Jorah is bleeding from his right shoulder. Ossifer's lance had hit and stabbed him straight through. The blood is pouring. He can't hold his shield straight, leaving the other side exposed.

"We must stop this," Dany says, rising. Yara stops her halfway and pulls her down.

"No. You are Queen. To stop now would be a sign of weakness. He chose this. He can surrender at any time. You mustn't mother him. He and your people will not thank you for it."

"You're right. I just hate to see him suffer. He's been with me since I was a girl with nothing."

"And now he is old and foolish."

The riders plow into each other. This time, Ossifer's lance sends Jorah soaring into the air and hitting the ground with the clatter of mail breaking and bones cracking.

The healers come to carry him off. He is gravely wounded. Dany fixes a smile that betrays nothing onto her face, accepts Ser Ossifer's bow and dubs him the winner. She then scurries away as fast as is acceptable for a Queen to scurry. When Dany pushes aside the cotton flap of the green healer's tent, Ser Jorah's armor is off, and he is bandaged. But the bandages are soaked through. His face and every visible bit of skin is covered with yellow and blue bruises.

Dany rushes to his side.

"Is he awake?" she asks the healer. "Yes. But I fear…" The healer's voice drops to a whisper.

"I feel he will not live for long. If you want to say goodbye, do it now."

Jorah opens his mouth.

"You don't have to whisper. I know my fate. I accepted death long ago."

The healer gives Dany and Jorah some privacy.

"Jorah"

"No. Let me speak. I won't be able to for much longer. I have something to say before I die. I love you, Dany. My love for you has consumed my life, redeemed me, given me purpose, and brought me home. By allowing me to serve and love you from afar, you have given me a life greater than I ever believed possible. I never expected my love to be returned. You and Yara are meant to be together. She is young, and I am old, and you love her like I love you. All is as it should be. I die in peace, and I thank you."

Tears pour down Dany's cheeks as she leans to kiss Jorah's cheek.

"I love you too, Jorah."

Jorah smiles a sad, dying smile and weakly pats Dany on the hand.

"Now aren't you the sweetest girl to say that."

He closes his eyes. His breathing slows and stops. Dany cries alone over her oldest friend for a long time.

Finally, Yara enters and comes to Dany's side. She throws herself into Yara's arms. Yara takes a sheet and covers Jorah's body.

"There there. He died at your side. He was ready. I think… I think that's why he entered the lists. He was very tired."

Dany wipes her tears and stands tall. It is Midsummer, and the Queen must celebrate with her people. There is no trace of Dany's sadness when she returns to the Royal Stand. Only a regal smile. Two Knights enter the fighting grounds and bow to each other. One is much larger. It is Ser Brienne of Tarth and Arya of Winterfell.

Dany gives Yara a sidelong look.

"Arya is no Knight. Why was she allowed to enter the lists?"

Yara smirks.

"Special Royal dispensation. Don't scold; she's done wonderfully. She thoroughly trounced Ser Answet of Holt, Ser Vander of Kettleblack, and Ser Ien of Lyderly. Brienne has done the same to Ser Lucas of Charlton, Ser Forley of Prester, and Ser Chanter of Orme. They are the last two remaining fighters in hand to hand sword fighting and the only two women to enter. I suspect their victories will encourage young noble women to seek Knighthood and enter the lists next Midsummer."

This cheers Dany up a bit.

The two duel again, and again Arya scores a few points, but Brienne emerges the most skilled fighter. It is close, and when Brienne is pronounced the winner, Arya's sulky demeanor is punctured by incredible respect for Brienne. Dany bestows Brienne her favor. Arya and Brienne turn to leave the field. Yara stands.

"What are you doing?" Dany asks.

"I have an idea."

She speaks loudly so everyone can hear.

"Arya, it is clear you are destined to become a great Knight. But you have much to learn, and I can think of no better teacher than Ser Brienne of Tarth."

An expression of surprise, then delight crosses Arya's face. Brienne looks stunned.

"Brienne, are you willing to take Arya Stark of Winterfell as your squire, as requested by your Queen?"

Brienne smiles wryly.

"In truth, since elevating my last Squire to Knighthood, I have enjoyed the peace. But you're right. I would be delighted to take Arya of Stark as my Squire."

"Arya, will you kneel and swear yourself Ser Brienne's Squire."

"I will."

The crowd roars with approval. Arya kneels before Brienne and takes her vow. Yara sits down with a satisfied smile. She looks at Dany. Dany is beaming.

"That was an excellent idea."

Hours later, after the feast, Lady Mormont interrupts Yara and Dany in their purple silk tent. She is flanked by an exhausted, sweat-stained messenger.

"My Queens, I apologize. But I come bearing urgent news."

"Can't it wait until the end of the Midsummer Festival?"

"No."

She pushes the messenger forward. He is swaying, clearly having run many leagues.

"My Queens, I come from Crakehall. I bear terrible tidings."

Melisandre and Cersei walk the cobblestone road to Silverhall dressed as beggars wrapped in rags. A few coppers had bought them passage on a wagon laden with grain destined for the Silverhall larders. House Silverhall's flag flaps in the wind above the Castle. A peacock in his pride in cream. House Silverhall's words are emblazoned beneath the peacock: "I have no rival."

Cersei leans as if to support Melisandre and whispers in her ear.

"House Silverhall has always been a friend and vassal of the Lannisters. We will find help here."

 **PART 4**

"Nothing is happening!" Cersei hisses at Melisandre, taking a generous gulp of Arbor red. "We've been here for weeks and Lord Serrett is no closer to backing my bid for the Iron Throne than he was when we stumbled into this dratted Castle." She restlessly paces the chamber like a caged tiger. And she's right.

"Lord Serett is weighing his choices."

"Lord Serett is a doddering old coward, too weak to seek vengeance on the false Queen and her pirate Consort."

Melisandre warms her withered hands by the fire, gazing into the flames with an expression of… Regret? Contemplation? Cersei still doesn't understand the old woman who rescued her from Crakehall.

"Do you have a plan if Lord Serrett refuses us?"

Melisandre shakes her head.

"Once, when I was strong, I might have used magic to manipulate Lord Serrett without a second thought. Now…"

Melisandre unconsciously caresses her sagging, age-spotted throat.

"Now I must conserve my energy."

"So am I supposed to just sit here waiting until I grow as old as you?"

"No. You're supposed to figure this out on your own."

Cersei's eyes widen. She is quiet for a moment. Thinking.

"Lady Jeyne Serrett seems quite spirited," Cersei observes blandly.

"Yes. I wonder she feels about her father's reticence?" Melisandre replies casually.

"Hmm. I wonder."

Arya lies face up on the cold dirt floor of The Red Keep's smallest inner courtyard. It is adjacent to the stables, between the loud main courtyard and royal gardens,where fine Ladies and powerful Lords promenade whispering sweet seductions and cruel gossip. Few courtiers bothered with this "Knight's Courtyard," a training ground for Guards, Knights, Mercenaries, and Squires to practice their skill. The Knight's Courtyard is a large circle filled with smaller circles drawn in white chalk that decrease in size until the very middle of the circle. This is no more than a dot, big enough for only one man to stand. Or, in this case, woman.

Brienne of Tarth peers critically down at her Squire.

"Giving up already?"

"Just taking a moment to admire your profile."

Brienne bends over, yanks Arya up with one enormous arm, and cuffs her on the ear.  
"None of that sass."

"I wasn't sassing. I was flirting."

"That's even worse. Twenty laps to cool your ardor."

Arya grumbles good-naturedly and trots to the outermost circle to begin her laps.

"Knees up!" Brienne bellows.

Arya lifts her knees almost to her chest as she runs, striking a ridiculous resemblance to a heron.

"That's better."

Arya grimaces dramatically in Brienne's direction but easily completes the first few laps. She is in excellent shape, partly in thanks to her own discipline and partly thanks to Brienne's fanatical devotion to practice. Under Brienne's watchful eye, Arya felt her body and mind grow. Her body, always lithe and toned, had now developed sinewy muscles that bulged pleasingly when she flexed. On the rare occasions Arya found herself alone and in the presence of a mirror, she couldn't help but admire the way her biceps and abdominals rippled in the light.

Since becoming Brienne's Squire, Arya had moved into a small room adjacent to Brienne's quarters in the White Sword Tower. On her first morning, Arya had woke at Sunrise to a hideous roar. Half asleep, Arya wondered if King's Landing might be under fire and reached instinctively for her weapon. Only to run smack into Brienne.

"Planning on stabbing me on your first day of training?" Brienne asked, leaning close over Arya and smiling menacingly.

"I thought it was an attack."

"That's one way to put it. Get up!"

Since then, Arya's days had been consumed by physical and mental training. When Brienne wasn't putting Arya through sword drills, archery practice, endurance tests, and weight training, Brienne was shoving as much information into Arya's brain as it could handle. And then some. Geography, history, etiquette, math, and culture were the main topics.

"Why do I need to know the Islands of the Stepstones? When will that possibly be of use to me?" Arya had asked Brienne on her third day of such lessons. Brienne sighed and sat down next to Arya.

"As a Knight, your duties will carry you through every part of Westeros. You will travel, unguarded and often alone, into perilous regions filled with people who do not want you there. You must try your hardest to remember every piece of knowledge I impart upon you. For I promise, one day, you will need them. Furthermore, as a Knight, you must speak and act with authority. Wisdom and skill are the bedrocks of such authority. You must wield both to be a true Knight."  
Arya thinks about this and nods.

"You're right."

"I'm so glad you think so. Now, tell me about the Stepstones."

"The Stepstones are a chain of islands between the southern narrow sea and the northwestern Summer Sea. They are east of Dorne in Westeros, west of the Disputed Lands in Essos, and just north of Tyrosh. They include Bloodstone and Grey Gallows."

"Good. What are they known for?"

"Pirates, mostly. I think Yara has been there."

"I'm sure she has. Why are they important?"

"They're not important."

"Arya, how many times must I tell you this? Everything is important."

Arya sighs and racks her brain.

"According to legend, the Stepstones are a remnant of a land-bridge, which once linked Westeros and Essos. Ten thousand years ago the First Men used that land-bridge to cross into what is now known as Dorne to begin their invasion of Westeros. The greenseers of the children of the forest are said to have used magic to shatter the land-bridge into an archipelago. This is now known as the Stepstones."

At this, Brienne had smiled with a trace of pride. For the first time in years, Arya felt the warm glow of approval from someone she looked up to.

The pleasant memory of that lesson is disturbed by a stray rock under Arya's heel. She trips and falls face down with an embarrassing splat. Brienne breaks into gleeful laughter and Arya feels her cheeks grow red. She picks herself up and meets the cerulean eyes of none other than Lady Aspeth: the fairest and most admired maiden in King's Landing. Arya feels her stomach drop and wishes she was somewhere far, far away. Under a rock maybe.

Arya bows to Lady Aspeth with as much dignity as she can muster. Brienne's gleeful laughter booms louder.

"Well met, Lady Aspeth."

"Indeed, Squire Arya."

Queen Dany sits in the Small Council chamber with a grim expression that Yara has become far too familiar with over the last few weeks.

"Have we no news from the Sept or Healers?"

The Grand Maester sighs.  
"I'm afraid not. Our healers are baffled by this new ailment. They sent four to Crakehall village: two healers and two priests with great knowledge of plagues and healing. All four were unable to identify this malady. Worse still, two of the four have taken ill. One has already died and the other is not long for this world."

"If this new disease is so deadly, why hasn't it spread through Westeros? Plague usually travels like wildfire."

Now the Varys, Master of Whispers speaks.

"Because the villagers of Crakehall have done something quite extraordinary. An act of bravery perhaps unprecedented in Westeros."

The entire Small Council turns to stare at Varys.

"You can't be serious," replies Lady Cassella Vaith, Master of Coin. "Over the past few years, we have all witnessed impossible acts of bravery on behalf of good Queen Daenerys Targaryen. What could mere villagers do to compare?"

Lady Vaith is a frugal woman, extremely pragmatic and exactly what the realm needs to keep wise watch over Westeros's treasury. However, even Dany and Yara would (privately) admit Lady Vaith is a bit of a snob.

"Oh, I am quite serious. You see the reason this Summer Sickness has not wrecked havoc upon Westeros is the people of Crakehall Village have taken the unprecedented step of quarantining themselves."

Lady Vaith's sneer melts to one of astonishment. Varys continues.

"They have placed plague markers surrounding the village. No one is allowed in or out, save those poor healers and priests who volunteered to brave the sickness in hopes of finding a cure. Apparently the Village is lead by a rather forceful old Septa who managed to convince an entire town to sacrifice themselves for the common good. Quite unprecedented."

"Does that mean… They're all going to die?" Yara asks with alarm, glancing at her wife. Dany's expression betrays nothing.

"Oh yes. They are dying right now."

Lady Jeyne Serrett nuzzles Cersei's neck, playing with a strand of golden hair and gazing into her bright green eyes. The two lie in Lady Jeyne's enormous featherbed. Sweat stained silk sheets are crumpled at the bed's edge. Cersei runs one finger along Lady Jeyne's soft arm. A pleasant tingle goes through Lady Jeyne's body. Although the last living heir of House Serrett has bedded many men in the village and servant women, she had never encountered a true equal until Queen Cersei arrived.

"My father is such a fool to refuse you. We had always been loyal to the Lannisters and must remain loyal to the cause." Lady Jeyne says hotly.

Cersei's fingers move lower along Jeyne's body.

"That's true. But he did lose three sons fighting for my throne. I too have lost three children. I can understand his pain."

"But you never stopped fighting. When your last son died, you took the throne as was your right. And you were a fair and beloved Queen."

"Fair? I like to think so. But beloved? No. I have never been beloved. My enemies have spread too many lies."

Jeyne shifts uneasily at that. She had heard rumors. But who hadn't? Now, as Queen Daenerys sat on the Throne, it was a common belief among the smallfolk that Kings Joffrey and Tomen were the bastard children of Cersei and her brother, Jamie.

"I've never believed it." Lady Jeyne lies.

"I know. You're such a wise girl. Far wiser than your father. It seems to me that you have the true Serrett spirit that has tied your house with mine for generations."

Jeyne blushes and reaches over to kiss Cersei.

"You flatter me, my Queen."

"Were I Queen, there would be nothing I wouldn't give you. Daenerys and Yara rule as Queens on the Iron Throne. So might we. Such is my passion for you. If only your Father had your foresight. Without House Serrett's men and influence, these dreams can never be realized."

Jeyne sits up and clasps Cersei's hand.

"Do you really mean that?"

"Yes. I do."

Jeyne thinks for a few minutes.

"Then something must be done about my Father."

Cersei wraps her arms around Lady Jeyne and hugs her close, willing herself to exude warmth and love.

"Whatever you think is best."

 **PART 5**

Daenerys Targaryen lowered her naked body into boiling water and stared at the dungeon ceiling. Since taking power, the imprisoned population of King's Landing had drastically decreased. Some dungeons would always be necessary, of course, but Queen Daenerys did not require the extensive, 15-room torture chambers of her predecessor. So, being a practical woman, she had repurposed the most secluded dungeon chamber into a private royal bathing area. The Castle servants labored for weeks to scrub away decades of dried blood and human waste, but the room now sparkled.

The bath was a circular structure of veiled pink marble. Four chiseled dragons leered out from ionic columns surrounding the bath. It was shallow enough to stand and deep enough to swim. An enormous fireplace roared against one wall. Above the flames hung six iron pots filled with water. A team of veiled servant girls nimbly moved between the fireplace and the bath, hauling buckets of scalding water that would boil the skin of anyone but a Targaryen. Another girl combed lotion through Dany's long, pale blonde tendrils. Still another stirred bath oils scented with honeysuckle and coarse sea salt into the waters.

"Enough," Dany commanded. "Leave me."

The women left. She was alone. Dany relaxed her body and let herself float, face up, eyes never leaving the stone ceiling. This room was her solace, but sometimes she couldn't help but wonder how many people died in this room. How many broken bones, cracked skulls, piercing screams, rotting wounds, pleading words, slow deaths? She'd never know. She never wanted to know. But she wondered. She could still her body, but she could never still her thoughts.

She closed her eyes, willing herself to think of the problems at hand. Cersei had escaped Crakehall. The new plague was contained, but for how long? Her people had tried to suppress any mention of the disease, but rumors traveled faster and farther than anyone could stop. People were growing nervous. They wanted answers. Whispers of a Lannister plot permeated the palace. People had questions for Daenerys Targaryen and for the first time in her rule, she had no answers.

"Help me."

The words escaped her lips before she could think about them. Sometimes that happened to Dany; her thoughts grew so strong that bits and pieces of them popped out aloud, unbidden and unwanted. She was glad no one was around to hear this one. She could handle armies but not a mad Queen roaming free. She could handle rebellion but not a plague, striking down more people than any massacre. "Help me." She repeated the words, savoring them. How nice to finally say that forbidden thing aloud, here where there was no one to call her weak.

"Somebody help me!" Dany wailed. "I don't know what to do."

She felt hot, salty tears pouring down her cheeks and mixing into the water.

The words echoed back, louder and eerily hollow. "Somebody help me! I don't know what to do." They reverberated through the dungeon chambers, repeating ever fainter. The hairs on the back of Dany's neck prickled. For a moment, Dany wondered if it might be a ghost. An unearthly cry traveling through time from some doomed soul who had begged for help in this very room. But no. It was just an echo. Dany is alone.

Yara leaned back into her marble Consort throne, worrying and waiting. Over the last week, Dany had recoiled deeper and deeper into her shell, spending more time alone, showing little emotion and worst of all refusing to be touched. "Knight Brienne of Tarth and her Squire, Arya Stark!" a herald boomed from the other side of the throne room. The two women swept in, Arya trailing at just an impudent foot behind her master. They dressed casually, in light leather trews and lace up linen doublets. Arya's hair has recently been trimmed into an angular, chin length style. Yara was amused to notice that despite what must have been Brienne's best efforts, there were still messy strands sticking up and a stray lock falling impishly over Arya's left eye.

"Let us spare the pleasantries, for we have little time. I have a quest for you, my favorite warriors, should you choose to accept it. I warn you: it is dangerous."

Brienne responded without hesitation.

"What sort of quest comes without danger? I accept. As much as I have enjoyed my time as a Knight of King's Landing, part of me will always long for the road. I heed your call to service."

"As do I!" Arya piped up, her eyes shining with excitement.

"I thought you might. Very well. As you may have heard, rumors are swirling that the mad Queen Cersei has escaped her prison."

"I had, but paid them no heed as idle gossip."

"Were they. In truth, by some magic or malice, Queen Cersei has escaped. We know not how, or when, but the guards are dead, and she is roaming Westeros, likely plotting my dear wife and I's demise."

Arya's face grew pale. Yara noticed that the young woman's grip tightened on her blade needle.

"Furthermore, a dangerous new plague has broken out in Crakehall village, which falls just outside Cersei's old prison. The two incidents might be a coincidence, but I doubt it."

"You think Cersei is capable of starting a plague?"

"I think Cersei is capable of anything. However, the plague first occurred while Cersei was, by all accounts, still imprisoned. Which tells us one very important thing: she has powerful help."

Brienne's hackles rose.

"They must be stopped."

"Yes. I beg you: ride out, to the Westerlands, and see if you can track down our slippery old mad Queen. If you do find her, send a raven. I will prepare the army to join you at a few day's notice. No matter what you do, do not confront Cersei alone. She is crafty and utterly without scruples. The realm needs you alive."

"We will make preparations to leave at once."

Brienne turned to leave but paused.

"Queen Yara?"

"Yes."

"Should we encounter the plague, our swords will be helpless."

"I know, Brienne. I know."

Arya trotted exuberantly on Brienne's heels as they walked back to their chambers, chattering wildly.

"Have you ever met someone who has the plague?"

"No. But many Tarths died in the Spring."

"Do you think Cersei has an army? I think we can take an army, don't you?"

"Maybe."

"What's the most men you've faced alone at one time?"

Brienne contemplates for a moment.

"Thirty-seven"

"What happened?"

"They died. I lived."

"That's not a very interesting story, Brienne."

"Master."

"Master Brienne."

"No, just Master."

"Ser Master, when we're on the road, it is traditional for traveling companions to regale each other with tales, is it not?"

"I'll leave that to you."

"I do have quite a few, but still, I hope to hear some of yours."

"Mayhaps. Now, pack light and pack well. I'll leave word at the armory that they are to prepare you a full suit."

At this Arya nearly jumped for joy. Only the presence of a gaggle of comely maidens passing by stopped her. She bowed and winked at the prettiest of the girls, who saucily held her gaze.

"ARYA!" Brienne bellowed, never breaking pace. Arya ran to catch up.

Cersei sat on the hastily constructed wooden throne in Silverhill's Great Hall, intently watching a group of Nobles approach. Beside her sits Lady Jeyne Serrett, newly appointed Lady of Silverhill, dressed in a black mourning gown.

Ser Rolph Spicer of Castamere, dressed in the Spicer colors of silver, green, and black, is at the head of the procession. He is a square man with a thrice-broken nose and gray, close-cropped beard. Deep lines furrow his forehead, and a long scar covers the left size of his face. He walks jerkily, with an odd, uneven gait.

"My Queen," he says in oily, fawning tones, falling at her feet.

"My dear Ser Rolph. How happy I am to see an old friend."

"And I, to see the rightful ruler of Westeros freed and strong. Lady Serett, I was saddened indeed to hear of your Father's passing."

Lady Serret lowered her eyes and schooled her face into an expression of barely restrained grief.

"Thank you. It was a tragic accident. His sight and strength had sharply declined with old age. If only I had been there, I might have stopped his fall from that accursed window. I shall take that regret to my grave."

"I pray you, be kind to yourself. Your father would want that."

"You're right. I shall try. Queen Cersei's presence has provided a purpose to puncture my grief. I am so grateful."

Ser Rolph nodded respectfully and turned his attention back to Cersei. She smiled down benevolently at him and gently patted Lady Jeyne on the arm.

"My dear Ser Rolph Spicer, how have you fared? I am surprised to see you survived the Targaryen purge."

"Alas, through much sacrifice. I have but one remaining son, the rest having perished in the war."  
"I'm so sorry to hear that."

"They died good deaths, fighting for your Majesty. I am proud of them.

"And I am forever grateful. I remember the invaluable part you played in ridding Westeros of the Usurper Rob Stark at the Red Wedding. Afterward, we rewarded you with a Lordship and the Lands of Castamere."

"Aye, and I am much grateful. Alas, the vengeful Starks have poisoned this Queen against my house. They took away my title, my lands, and-"

He bends over and lifts the bottom hem of his left pant leg up to reveal a wooden peg.

"My leg. They crippled me and called it justice. They claimed it was mercy, but Targaryens know nothing of mercy."

"True. They have wronged us all greatly. The time has come to take our revenge."

Ser Rolph smiles nastily.

"I was hoping you would say that."

"I've sent ravens to your fellow houses of the Westerlands: Ferren, Plumm, Brax, Lefford, Yarwyck, and Peyne. Thus far Brax and Yarwyck have heeded my call and are traveling at this minute to Silverhill to join my army. Will you help me summon the rest?"

"Happily, my Lady. The Lannisters will always have loyal friends in the Westerlands."

"Thank you, my dear friend. Together we will take back the Iron Throne. The streets of King's Landing will run red with Stark and Targaryen blood. I promise you this, good Ser Rolph: when I am finished, every man, woman, and child of those cursed houses will be dead. Their heads will line the walls of the Red Keep, and their names struck from history, never to be repeated.

 **PART 6**

The hooves of a great roan destrier tore into the dirt outside Bartok's Inn. A dozen eyes turn to take in the fair haired, mail-clad Knight astride the muscular warhorse. Half a dozen paces behind cantered a nimble white courser, smaller and better suited to its rider: a slim Squire in brown trews. Two young stable boys scampered up to help the travelers dismount.

"Treat them well," Brienne instructed the boys, patting her companion fondly.

"Yes, M'Lord," the older of the boys stuttered timidly, taking the reins.

Behind her, Arya dismounted, sniffed the air, and looked longingly at the Inn. "I'm starving. Can't we eat right away?"

Brienne shook her head.

"I'd rather bathe and get settled."

"Please, Brienne? We haven't had a real meal since we left King's Landing. Scrawny game and nettles are not suitable food for a growing girl like myself. Or a strapping Knight such as you."

Brienne smirked down at Arya. At 6'3 to Arya's 5'6, Brienne towered over her young Squire.

"I hate to break it to you, Arya, but you're done growing."

"Nonsense. I feel my ankles lengthening at this very moment."

Brienne laughed. She'd laughed more during these last few weeks on the road with Arya than she had her entire life. The girl reveled in cracking her mentor's stony exterior. It had become a private game: how often could Arya make Brienne laugh? As a result, the journey West had thoroughly enjoyable for both travelers.

"Very well. But we should eat quickly and retire early."

Arya grinned and open the Inn door, releasing the mouthwatering aromas of roast chicken, fresh bread, and rich, bubbling stew.

"Absolutely."

One hour and several courses later, Brienne and Arya groaned with sated satisfaction. Arya mopped the last bits of stew up with crusty brown bread and washed it down with a deep flagon of spiced ale.

"That's enough. I can't eat another bite." Brienne said, beckoning to a pretty serving girl with long auburn braids and hazel eyes. She accepted Brienne's payment with thanks, but her eyes lingered on Arya. Arya met her eyes and smiled. The girl walked away nonchalantly, turning several times to give Arya a flirty smirk. Brienne rolled her eyes.

"We should get to bed."

"I think she likes me."

"No matter. We'll be gone by daybreak."

"But it's barely nightfall! Just a little longer, please?"

Brienne sighed.

"I have no interest in playing nursemaid for my bumbling squire and some tavern girl who's no better than she ought to be."

"But-"

"But you're young and stupid. As long as you can ride come Morning, I don't really care how you spend your time."

"Thank you, Brienne! I'll just stay for a quick drink."

Brienne climbed the dark wooden staircase into the upper level where patrons lodged overnight. She'd secured a room at the very end of the hallway, a narrow, simple chamber with two pallets and a small table.

Slightly tipsy, Brienne fumbled in her pocket for the little brass key.

A floorboard creaked. The candle at the end of the hallway sputtered out. Brienne looked around, suddenly alert. She couldn't make out anyone else in the corridor. Was it the wind? Brienne grasped for her sword but before she could draw, an enormous fist slammed into Brienne's right eye. She gasped. Another fist, this time to the mouth. Brienne grabbed her assailant's neck and twisted. The neck broke with one piercing crack. His body slid onto Brienne, pushing her to the ground. She struggled to break free. Another hand came out of the dark, wrapping a vile smelling cloth over Brienne's mouth. Brienne's eyes fluttered, and she fell.

Arya tiptoed through the empty tavern and up the stairs. Her hair was mussed and lips swollen. Brienne was going to take one look and know exactly what she'd done with Nia the serving girl. Her cheeks flushed in anticipation of Brienne's scathing diatribe. Brienne…

Arya caught sight of the crumpled corpse at the end of the hallway. Her stomach dropped. She ran forward and pulled back the face. Two glazed, unseeing eyes stared back at her. But they didn't belong to Brienne. Arya looked closer. The dead man was some sort of sell-sword. His head, half ripped from the body, dangled at a jarring angle. Clotted matts of blood, hair, and tendons covered the wound.

The room was empty and in disarray. Whoever had taken Brienne had also stolen all of their food and money. Arya ran to the stables and breathed easier when she found their mounts unharmed. Wary of cutpurses, Brienne had stashed a hidden pouch filled with coins in her horse's saddle. Arya weighed her options. She could return to King's Landing, tell Dany and Yara what happened, and return with reinforcements. Or she could test those tracking skills Brienne had been teaching her. Arya saddled up.

Sansa Stark walked down the broad, cobbled streets of White Harbor. It was a neat, clean city of whitewashed stone houses and steep gray slate roofs. During the winter months, frigid salt winds whipped angrily at the citizens of White Harbor's plain garb. But summer in White Harbor was glorious. Crisp and light and alive.

When the Targaryen Queen reclaimed Westeros, she had invited the Starks to King's Landing to make a treaty. They declined. The remaining Starks were wary of invitations to King's Landing. And for good reason.

So Daenerys came to them, along with representatives from each part of Westeros. It was called the first Council of Westeros, or the Winterfell fair. Since then, the Council of Westeros convened once a year to hammer out disputes and discuss the well-being of the Kingdom. It was a savvy political move and popular excuse for the people of Winterfell to get drunk and feast.

But this year there would be no Westerosi Council. Nobody wanted to invite strangers into White Harbor, or any other town of the North. Plague was ravaging the Westerlands and people were terrified it might wander into their home.

Sansa walked up the Sept of the Snows's marble steps. It was a large Sept with a domed roof surmounted by tall statues of the seven. Hooded figures bowed as she passed. Inside, the only light came from the stained glass ceiling. Worshipers bowed before ancient statues of the seven inlaid with silver and sapphires. They made signs of respect as Sansa passed.

There was one difference between this Sept and every other Sept in Westeros. Inside the Snowy Sept, there were eight statues, not seven. Sansa approached the eighth statue. It was much newer than the others, freshly chiseled, its gray marble edges still sharp. The statue depicted a young woman in a loose gown. The statue's face was divided into two parts. The left side was lovely: a beautiful girl's face with a knowing smile and almond eyes. But the right… The right was disturbing. The marble seemed to be melting. There were a few lines distinguishing what once must have been facial features, but the rest seemed to drip down. It was as if a woman caught fire and then turned to stone before the fire could be extinguished.

Inside the cramped little chamber sat Margaery Tyrell. The melted statue. The only survivor. The eighth God. She stood, took High Septa Sansa's face in her hands, and smiled.

"Hello, my love."

Arya crouched in the woods, her eyes fixed on the bandit's campsite. She eavesdropped. The leader, a wiry little man with beady eyes and a long scar, was talking to a loutish team of mercenaries turned outlaws.

"Squealed like a pig he did when I slit his throat. Looked a bit like a pig too. The fat bastard. Probably tasted like a pig but I prefer chicken."

"What are we going to do with the Knight?"

A big bald man gestured toward a small tent. Arya muffled a relieved gasp. So Brienne was alive. Thank the Gods.

"Bring her to Crakehall. I hear they're looking for fighting men. There's a rebellion brewing, and that means easy money for killing farmboy conscripts."

"But why take her?"

"She's a Noble. They're hiring mercenaries, which means they need money. Her family might pay a handsome ransom, and we'll get a finders fee."

The men chuckled and the conversation turned to past battles. Arya plotted.

While the rest of the bandits slept, the large bald man stood sentry duty. Arya waited until the moon was full and the man was barely awake. She tiptoed closer until she could make out the moles on the back of his neck. She unsheathed needle and leaned forward. A twig broke under her foot. The man's eyes flew open, and he twisted around, sword raised. Too slow.

Needle plunged deep into the man's windpipe, punching through the other side and unleashing a heavy gush of blood. Arya gently lowered him to the ground. She didn't want the body to make any noise that might wake the others. She crept into camp, heading straight for the leader. She drew needle and surveyed the sleeping bandits. None of them would be waking up again.

Dany and Yara strolled hand in hand through the royal gardens. When the gardener discovered that gardenias were Dany's favorite flowers, he'd planted a bevy of them. The gardenias were in full bloom, fragrant and white and euphoric. Every afternoon at two o'clock, Yara would come into the throne room and announce that Dany had a pressing matter to attend to. The two would glide past row after row of gardenias, sipping pomegranate juice and discussing the day's events.

"Sansa has arrived in White Harbor and is ensconced with Margaery Tyrell in the Snowy Sept. It is our hope that, together, the High Septa and burned Goddess can devise some plan to stop the plague."

"I pray they can find an answer. If not, the plague may strike King's Landing come fall."

"They will."

Dany's face darkened.

"What is it?"

"A raven arrived this morning from Silverhill."

"Silverhill? Why?"

"It's Cersei. She's there and she's raising an army. The Nobles of the Westerlands are banding together for a Lannister rebellion."

The color drained from Yara's face, but her eyes filled with steel.

"So there will be war."

"Yes."

"And plague."

"Yes."

Daenerys Targaryen stopped to smell the flowers.

 **PART 7**

Daenerys Targaryen stood on the edge White Sword Tower, gazing past the jutting rocks of Aegon's High Hill and into the rough waters of Blackwater Bay. Yara Greyjoy placed on a callused palm on Dany's pale shoulder and followed her gaze. The two women stood in silence for several minutes, watching the sun begin its descent into the Ocean.

"You know, I've never been entirely comfortable with this place," Dany said.

"Westeros?"

"The Red Keep. Most people don't take the home of their enemies. For almost twenty years, the people who butchered my family lived in these walls."

"But before them, the Targaryens held King's Landing for centuries."

"Yes. And they went mad. My enemies hurt many people in The Red Keep. My family hurt many people in The Red Keep. I hurt many people in The Red Keep. Is it cursed, you think?"  
Yara sighed and pulled Dany into her arms.

"No. It's the throne. Any throne costs blood. But the Iron Throne most of all. You know it has to be this way."

"Yes. I suppose I just thought it might be over. Something is wrong, Yara. I feel it. We haven't heard from Brienne and Arya for weeks. I fear something happened to them. Quarantine or not, the plague is spreading. And Cersei is rallying the Westerlands to rebellion. Disease and war are two great ills. I don't know if my young rule can withstand them."

"Don't talk like that. You are Daenerys Targaryen, mother of Dragons and Breaker of Chains. I am Yara Greyjoy, Iron born and desperately in love with you. We can do this."

"But how do you kill a plague? How do you fight an enemy you can't see or touch or hurt? A plague is impervious to even my fire and your iron."

The Snowy Sept was once a quiet house of Gods. People spoke in hushed tones and tiptoed so as not to cause an echo. No more. Now the holy house was filled with shouts and footsteps, its halls crawling with life and death. For when the plague struck the North, it struck with deadly force. Entire towns were on the verge of total annihilation. All travel in and out of White Harbor had been halted. The sick were quarantined mere blocks away and the Sept itself had been turned into a makeshift plague lab, filling daily with Maesters and Wood Witches from every corner of Westeros. They came to find a cure for the Great Plague, alongside High Septa Sansa and Margaery, the new Burned God.

Inside a meeting room in the highest Snowy Sept tower, Sansa and Margaery met with a conclave of Maesters to review their findings.

"What are these?" Sansa asked, watching Maester Prewitt pull three vials from a wooden box and place them on the round, white marble meeting table.

"Potential cures for the West Plague," Maester Prewitt explained, "Each was administered to three patients under quarantine last week. We have high hopes for this one," Maester pointed to a muddy green concoction, "As it was devised by the Highest Ranking Arch-Maester of medicine."

"When will we know if they work?" Sansa asked.

"When someone gets better."

Margaery stood.

"I want to see them."

"That would require going into the quarantine."

"What do I have to fear? I have died before."

Brienne and Arya huddled over a campfire, roasting a rabbit and weighing their options.

"Now that we've sent a raven, our duty is technically done," Brienne admitted. "We could return to King's Landing and await further orders."

"But we know Cersei is raising an army in the Westerlands," Arya cried, "We must stop her."

"I'm not eager to lead an untrained Squire into a war zone, Arya," Brienne replied.

"I've seen worse. You know where I've been. What I'm capable of."

"Yes. I know. I just thought…"

"What?"

"I thought that you might want a bit of youth now. You were old so young. Don't you want a break from death?"

Arya shook her head.

"My loyalty is to Daenerys and Yara. We must make our way to the Westerlands and stop Cersei. Surely, now that Dany knows of her actions, she will send an army."

"Well, yes," Brienne admitted.

"So then let's meet the army. Let's go to Crakehall."

"But we'll arrive far before the army."

"Not if we make a few stops. This is what I propose: we make our way to the Westerlands, but we stop at Noble houses we know to be loyal to the crown. Dany has her standing army, but she will need every fighter possible to defeat Cersei once and for all. Let's rally Goldengrove, and Deep Den. Let's summon the Queen's men. Let's lead."

Brienne looked at Arya with new respect and smiled.

"Alright. Let's lead."

Cersei Lannister walked proudly through the courtyard of Lannisport, admiring the fighting men practicing. With the aid of Serret forces, taking her ancestral home had not proved difficult. The city was still filled with those loyal to the Lannisport cause. New men arrived daily to take the banner of Queen Cersei. They came from Casterly Rock and Red Lake, from Sarsfield and Oakwood, bringing with them weapons and the support of the Westerlands. When Daenerys Targaryen's forces had taken Westeros, the people of the Westerlands suffered a terrible humiliation that still stung. They were eager to extract their revenge.

Melisandre walked next to Cersei. Peculiarly, she seemed to be aging in reverse. When Melisandre met Cersei, she was a hideously wrinkled crone. Now she appeared a handsome woman no older than forty.

"You must tell me your beauty secret," Cersei implored, not for the first time.

Melisandre smirked coyly.

"Revenge," she replied simply.

"Then I should appear a maid of eighteen."

Melisandre laughed but did not answer the question further. She gestured to the troops.

"Do you think this will really be enough? Surely Daenerys's forces, while diminished, are still vast.

"Absolutely. We will strike quick, so she has no time to summon the full might of the Seven Kingdoms. Their forces will be weakened by the plague, which our troops are miraculously impervious to—"

At this Melisandre nodded graciously.

"And we have a nasty surprise for her dragons. Combined, these elements will destroy her. And together, we will take the Iron Throne."

"What of Lady Jane? She seems to think she will become your consort."

Cersei and Melisandre's eyes turned to the pretty young woman waving at them from across the courtyard.

"She will be handled."

Cersei paused and looked at Melisandre.

"It has something to do with your plague, doesn't it? Your newfound youth?"

Melisandre couldn't contain a smug smile.

"Yes."

"You were the one who started it then? And the more people who die from the plague, the younger you get?"

"You're a very insightful woman Cersei."

Cersei bowed dryly.

"I am but a Noblewoman in awe of your vast powers."

"Modesty doesn't suit you."

"Fair enough."

Yara and Dany lay in their vast canopy bed, pouring over papers.

"Cersei has chosen Lannisport for good reason; it's the hereditary Lannister home, filled with loyalists and surrounded by defenses. It's also against the water. If we're going to defeat her, we need to defeat Cersei on two fronts: land and sea."

"And air," Dany said coolly "I will fly with my dragons."

"Tyrion can help lead the troops. I will take to the sea and lead our Navy," Yara replied confidently.

Dany smiled at her wife.

"How lucky am I, to have found someone I not only love but respect as a consort?"

Yara kissed Dany.

"Extremely lucky," she said, coming up for breath.

Dany looked deep into Yara's eyes.

"I'm serious. We took Westeros back together. Let's secure it together."

Yara held Dany closer.

"Anytime."

Sansa and Margaery surveyed the makeshift hospital with horror. Bodies lay as far as the eye could see; old bodies, young bodies, bloody bodies, bandaged bodies, live bodies, dead bodies. The sheer weight of human suffering and disease sat oppressively on their shoulders as they walked through quarantine, experiencing firsthand the reckless horror of plague.

"It's just down here," Maester Prewitt urged, darting head, seemingly impervious to their surroundings. The women looked uncertainly at each other, then followed him up a rickety set of stairs and into a slightly smaller chamber filled with slightly fewer people. "Now here are those who took the first possible antidote," Maester Prewitt gestured to three emaciated patients. "The green one."

"The one from your highest ranking Maester?" Sansa asked, stepping closer to one moaning body.

"Yes. Unfortunately, our high hopes were for naught. Two of them have died, and one will within the day."

Sansa recoiled from the moaning body, stricken with the realization that this person was hopeless.

"Most unfortunate," Maester Prewitt said matter-of-factly. Sansa was struck by his coldness. She wondered if this is what a career in medicine wrought: distance and acceptance of death.

"The second antidote yielded similarly unsatisfactory results." Maester Prewitt continued blandly, "But the third —"

He pulled them towards the very end of the chamber, where three more patients lay, looking marginally more alive.  
"Seem promising."

Margaery leaned over one of the crumpled figures, gazing into his face. It was a boy, no older than fifteen, in the wrinkled rags of a street rat. His steady breathing sped up. He opened his eyes.

"Don't be alarmed," Margaery said.

"I'm not," the boy replied. "You're a God, right? Are you here to take me?"

Margaery brushed a fingertip against the boy's face.

"No. I'm here to bring you back."

Daenerys savored the air as she flew above Westeros, clamped tightly on the back of Drogon. The capable servants of King's Landing had fashioned a saddle of sorts to make her ride more comfortable, a clever contraption of leather and hinges that contained a compartment for weapons. The army had departed two weeks beforehand on its long march to Lannisport, as had Yara's fleet. Daenerys's dragon would have easily outpaced them had they left at the same time, so Dany stayed and spent the additional time setting up a government that might function in her stead. She felt confident that under Varys's ever watchful gaze, the cogs of King's Landing would continue turning while she was at war.

A week of march on foot was equivalent to roughly one day's flight, so Daenerys felt fresh for battle on her second day of travel. Drogon sped up as if anticipating the carnage that lay ahead. Finally, Dany saw them: her army. Her beautiful, strong army. She flew over, watching them wave up happily while trying to contain their disturbed mounts. They were poised for battle, only a few hundred yards from the walls of Lannisport.

Below her lay Tyrion Lannister leading a host of 18,000 strong troops, followed by wagons laden with supplies to withstand a siege (even if they were the ones that would be laying it) and flanked by a goodly number of servants, squires, and hangers-on. Dany had been touched by the enthusiasm that had broken out in her support. When the call came to defend her regime from Cersei, it seemed like every able-bodied man and woman in King's Landing stepped up to volunteer.

Drogon snapped his teeth. He detected the fight, the blood, and the fire to come. He wanted the mayhem to begin. Well, he was about to get his wish. Before Tyrion and the Army departed from King's Landing, they had plotted this very moment. As soon as Dany flew overhead, the army would know the time had come to attack. With fire raining overhead from a dragon, their offense was sure to prevail. Dany urged Drogon on. The time had finally come to fight.

Ahead lay Lannisport, in all its defiant splendor. The troops of Cersei and Melisandre assembled before the Keep walls. To Dany's intense consternation, Cersei's forces appeared only slightly smaller than her own. She urged Drogon downward, moving to circle above the front most contingent. It was almost too easy.

"Dracarys," she screamed and Drogon released an angry roar and swooped to unleash a stream of fire. Dozens burned instantly, others retreated furiously. It's too easy, Dany thought again. Just then, something green hurled into focus in her left eye. Drogon emitted a terrifying shriek. Dany looked with horror as the left tip of Drogon's wing ignited in flames. The bright, emerald, everlasting flames of dragon fire.

"Nooooooo!" Dany cried out, feeling Drogon shudder and wail beneath her. Drogon swerved abruptly, turning Southward, away from Lannisport and along the Ocean. Dany held on for dear life as Drogon plummeted at dangerous speed towards the earth. The beast struggled not to fall headfirst. Instead, it careened roughly but safely into a large lagoon a few miles south of the battle. Dany winced as they made contact with land. She surveyed her wounds. Nothing serious. She dismounted and moved to inspect Drogon's wing.

Dragons are impervious to most flame. However, they are not impervious to dragon fire. But while Dragonfire does not stop burning on any other victim, it behaves as normal fire when encountering dragons. When Drogon hit the water, the Dragonfire sputtered and extinguished. He was safe. Dany knew that. What she did not know was the fate of Drogon's wing. A sickening dread unfurled in Dany's stomach. What would happen to a dragon that couldn't fly?

Arya punched needle through the eye of a red-clad Lannister fighter, then slashed another foe through the belly. Behind her, Brienne hacked away at half a dozen enemy fighters with her heavy broadsword, methodically killing them as they approached. The women met eyes for and shared a smile. Brienne made her way towards Arya, slashing with such deadly force and aim that Cersei's forces hastily backed away rather than engage in combat.

"Did you see what happened to Dany?!" Brienne shouted through the melee.

"Yes," Arya replied, her face melting into concern. "I don't think she was hurt, though."

"She wasn't. But she and Drogon won't be able to help us until we stop the dragon fire."

"How?"

"We have to get to their canons and somehow disarm them."

"But the canons are deep in the Lannister army. We're good fighters, but no one can take on two hundred to one."

"We need a disguise," Brienne replied, and grabbed a red-cloaked body from the ground.

"Come, grab a body about your size and bring it back to base camp. We can outfit ourselves in there."

Thirty minutes later, Arya and Brienne crept surreptitiously towards the walls of Lannisport. They dodged knots of fierce fighting and tried not to make eye contact with enemy forces.

"There," Brienne said. Arya followed her gaze to two enormous iron catapults.

They moved closer and inspected the machines.

"I think we can disable them by removing these screws," Arya said. "Then, the next time someone tries to let loose the dragon fire, the entire contraption will fall and crush whoever tried to use it."

"Good. Do it. I'll distract the guards."

Brienne tottered clumsily over to the nervous men circling the catapult.

"Hullo fellows, which ways the battle?"

While Brienne did her best idiot impression, Arya nimbly unscrewed the pieces of metal holding the catapults together. She gathered them into a leather satchel and scuttled over to Brienne.  
"Sorry boys,' Arya said, trying to sound as manly as possible, "My friend here took a few too many blows on the battlefield. I think his wits have left him. Didn't have too many to begin with."

Brienne shrugged stupidly and Arya led her away from the confused men.

"Did you get the screws?"  
"Yep. Now let's get back to base camp!"

Cersei took a deep drink of Arbor Gold and surveyed the scene below her. The lands surrounding Lannisport were densely populated with the killing and the killed.

"Do you think we're winning?" Melisandre asked, a tinge of worry straining her otherwise casual tone.

"Of course. You saw what happened to that wretched Targaryen girl and her dragon. Without their precious Queen, Daenerys's forces will lose morale and fall back by sun down. You watch."

"I'm surprised there aren't more troops. My plague must have done its work."

Cersei smiled cruelly.

"It certainly did. I'd be surprised if half of these men aren't already carrying the disease. It will finish off anyone my men don't get."

Melisandre suddenly choked.  
"Melisandre?" Cersei asked uncertainly as she watched her co-conspirator's face go pale and ashen.

But Melisandre didn't say a word. It looked as if she was trying to, but all that her throat emitted were guttural rattles. The color drained from Melisandre's face. Then her arms. Then her legs. In fact, it seemed as if the color drained from all of Melisandre. Her skin, which had morphed from wrinkled to supple since rescuing Cersei from imprisonment, shifted and shriveled. Melisandre's hair turned white and then fell to the floor in tufts. She reached her arm toward Cersei. But Cersei, horrified, recoiled away. The hand disintegrated into dust. Melisandre's flesh tightened, then disintegrated, leaving only blackening muscle and fresh skeleton. Finally, even that fell apart, and the great Melisandre blew away in the winds.  
Cersei screamed. She screamed and screamed but no one came. They were all fighting her war.

Yara slapped her sailors on the back happily. Her fleet had made short work of Cersei's pathetic excuse for a Navy. They swept into the lagoon of Lannisport abruptly, pirate style, canons blazing and men pouring out with the fury of the drowned God in their veins. She turned to gaze at the city. Yara was frustrated with what she saw: walls. She couldn't see the battle, or who was winning. But what worried Yara most was that she hadn't seen Dany once. Sure, the fleet had attacked somewhat after the main force. But it frustrated Yara not to have seen any trace of her wife for most of the fighting. What if something had happened to Dany?  
Just as Yara's thoughts took a particularly dark turn, a weathered sailor's hand clapped Yara's back.

"Stop sulking, me' girl," said a toothless old seafarer. "Your lady approaches." Yara followed his gaze. Indeed, there was something on the horizon. Drogon! As the dragon flew closer, Yara noticed a thick piece of fabric tied around his left wing. Perhaps an injury? No matter, Drogon was flying steadily. Yara squinted to see a small, blonde figure atop the fearsome dragon. Dany was alive! And fighting!

Cersei stumbled outside The Keep and into the fighting. She needed to find a Colonel, or General, or anybody who could tell her how the Battle fared. She wasn't sure what had happened to Melisandre but she needed to know what was happening in the battle. Cersei looked around for a General. But her eyes fell onto the battlefield and stopped. Was Daenerys's army retreating? Cersei moved forward. They were! The Targaryen Army was in retreat! She was winning. Cersei beamed.

Then a dark shadow fell over Cersei. Cersei didn't have time to look up. She didn't have time to do anything. Cersei burned alive with a smile on her face, incinerated in one second by Daenerys Targaryen's Dragonfire.

 **Epilogue**

Yara looked uncertainly at Drogon.  
"You know, I'd be happy to sail back to King's Landing."

"I know you would. But I want you to experience the joys of flight."

Yara shook her head. She and Dany were standing in a lush meadow mere miles from Lannisport. After Cersei died, her forces quickly surrendered, and Dany's troops retook the Westerlands within days. As soon as everyone returned to King's Landing, Dany was determined to slap a medal on Arya, Brienne, Yara, Margaery, and Sansa for bravery and innovation during combat. But first, they had to get back.

Which brought them to Drogon. Yara clambered awkwardly on the humongous beast's back, strapping herself into the saddle and trying not to quake with fear too visibly. Dany darted up easily behind her.

"See?" Dany said happily. "Snug."

"You're lucky I love you," Yara muttered.

"I know," Dany replied and wrapped Yara into a delicious kiss.

 **THE END**


End file.
